Heads and Tales
by Carly Sullivan
Summary: Years after leaving Babylon 5, Lyta Alexander receives a visitor from her past.
1. Heads and Tales 1/3

Once upon a time, there was a Crusade script that contained flashbacks into   
critical moments in the life of the crew. For Lt. John Matheson, that moment   
involved a female rogue telepath held at PsiCorps Headquarters. In the original   
version of that script, the telepath was to have been Lyta Alexander, but the   
producers and Patricia Tallman could not come to terms, and so the script was   
revised. In the original version, however, there was a brief scene that   
suggested that Lyta might have escaped the blast that destroyed PsiCorps   
Headquarters. It was from that deleted scene that this story sprang. It was   
written before later B5 works declared that Lyta had died in the Telepath War,   
so it assumes that she came through that War very much alive.   
  
  
  
  
  
Heads And Tales  
  
  
  
Misty wraiths sauntered on spiral staircases built of predawn light. Within the   
molasses brick shelter, she leaned against the frosty window frame and watched   
them climb up from the murky surface of the marsh, as miniature tendrils of   
steam from her teacup mirrored the motion. Lyta Alexander shivered, though the   
mug was warm in her hands and the fire blazed in the hearth. It was a rugged   
place the telepaths had come to, hard living and low tech. She drew the   
chenille robe tighter round her.   
  
The tea slipped warmly down her throat, its honeyed tannin heightening her   
senses. As the wind rattled branches against the window, from across the swamp   
a blaze of flame called her eyes. The pain of the memory it carried mingled   
with its warm familiarity. She sighed, not entirely sure why.   
  
If Earth's seasons had any meaning here, she would measure this as late summer.   
Most of the native foliage was in full flower. One large shrub, its branches   
spreading broadly all about, showed the fiery colors of autumn's impending   
death. One vibrant plant would die too soon. Each year she watched it happen   
again: that same branch on that same tree yielded its greenery to the blazing   
hues that presaged death, long before its fellows, long before its time. Every   
year she remembered.   
  
In the first days of the telepaths' settlement on this rugged planet, Lyta   
Alexander had been their closest thing to a governor. Her powers, her   
connection to Byron, her unfailing passion, had cast her as their leader,   
although when the hostilities were over she would have preferred to fade away.   
Even a utopian society needs structure and until routines of governance were   
established, her power marked her as leader. Although the Alliance officially   
granted the telepaths this home world at the end of the war, there were   
diplomatic skirmishes for years afterward, and Lyta was the closest thing to a   
diplomat they had. Her temperament was not well suited to the role, but she had   
"history" on nearly every dignitary in or out of the Alliance.   
  
Now, she thought, as she slowly dressed in the fabrics their looms produced and   
the layers the climate demanded, she had become more a monument than a minister.   
She was grateful to be free of the political responsibilities, tired as she was   
of all that wrangling, but the homage with which she was treated made her feel   
more relic than respected elder. And she was, if she faced facts, old. The   
first strands of silver rippling through her fiery hair might have been   
charming, but as she ran the brush through them now she acknowledged that the   
grey locks overwhelmed the red. The effect only emphasized the weariness in her   
eyes.   
  
She checked the day's schedule, more out of habit than the expectation of   
anything new. For a time, she had been provided with a secretary to handle her   
appointments, but as her commitments dwindled, it seemed pointless. They did   
have a communications network now, so most scheduling was automatic. The rest   
she could handle by herself.   
  
Today's agenda was like that of most other days. She could spend some early   
morning time tending her garden. A few flowers hid in there, but most of the   
soil was turned to producing food. Trade with other worlds was still limited;   
it was best that they be as self-sufficient as possible. She was expected at   
the Trade Commission meeting later in the morning. If it were typical, nothing   
would be accomplished. Her only other appointment was in the early afternoon.   
A colonel. What did EarthForce want with her now?  
  
There was a pleasure in watering and weeding that she wouldn't have imagined,   
some connection to a distant past. The day's harvest was generous: tomatoes,   
mustard greens, and corn. She set them on the table while she washed up,   
pleased at the way their shapes and colors made an impromptu centerpiece.   
  
Time allowed for leisurely walk to the city plaza before the meeting. Arriving   
early, she did not enter the building but chose a seat on a bench in the plaza.   
She drew a small journal from her bag, and recorded the morning's thoughts.   
Writing was a habit she had learned from G'Kar, one of the many debts she owed   
him.   
  
She wrote about the garden and about the people who scurried in and out of the   
governance hall on this crisp, windy morning. How had they managed to create a   
bureaucracy so quickly? She wrote about hopes and hardships. She did not   
mention the tree.  
  
  
  
  
  
Lyta could only wonder why she was included in this trade commission, since she   
rarely played any active role. Still, there was a certain amusement in watching   
a group of telepaths engage in politics. Lying was essentially impossible, when   
everyone could read everyone else. Even negotiation, any sort of bargaining,   
was difficult, when everyone else at the table could be inside your head. No   
one would do that, of course. It wasn't ethical. It wasn't polite. Lyta had   
amused herself at many a boring meeting by peeking in on who was scanning whom.   
The most amusing fiction was the pretense that none of it was happening.   
  
This commission meeting was, in some sense, actually productive. After a   
blazing argument between the isolationist leader and the resident pragmatist,   
there was a resolution to explore options for trade with Earth. Was that why   
the EarthForce colonel wanted to see her? Was he lobbying for this deal?   
Perhaps, now that it had passed, he would cancel. 


	2. Heads and Tales 2/3

She walked home through the market square, stopping here and there to chat and   
at the baker's to buy a loaf of bread. That little detour meant she approached   
her house now from the garden side. Startled, she stopped to study the figure   
moving about the yard. Dressed in black, he walked slowly up and down between   
the planting blocks, pausing here and there, seeming only to observe. That   
visual information did not identify him so Lyta reached out with her mind. She   
had only an instant of contact before the blocks snapped up, but there was a   
memory on the edge of that moment.   
  
He turned to face her as she approached the garden. A man of average build and   
uncertain age, he gave an impression of nervousness, and Lyta wondered if that   
sense came from purely physical clues. A shiver born in the memory of long-ago   
horrors ran through her as she realized the black garb he wore was a uniform.   
Not the familiar and frightening one of memory, this uniform was a flight suit,   
adorned with military insignias.   
  
"Ms. Alexander?" he inquired softly as he stepped toward her. Cautiously, Lyta   
nodded in reply. "I'm John Matheson. I'm sorry. I arrived a bit early."   
  
Breath returned to Lyta Alexander's lungs as she recognized her afternoon   
appointment. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Colonel," she said, moving past   
him to unlatch the door. "Please come in."  
  
"Please don't apologize. It's my fault," he said as he followed her inside.   
"And it's John, please."  
  
She thought it odd he didn't smile when he said that, but found herself liking   
him just the same. "Please come in, John."  
  
"I've been enjoying your garden. I hope you don't mind." He surveyed the room   
from just inside the doorway as she set the bread down on the table beside the   
morning's harvest and threw off the cape she wore.   
  
"Of course not," she replied automatically, then remembered telepathic contact   
minutes earlier and the blocks she had felt from him. She regarded him with a   
newborn suspicion. "May I take your coat," she asked, gesturing to the garment   
folded over his arm. He thanked her, then helped her to hang it beside her own   
wrap.   
  
Leading the way to the little sitting area, she motioned him to a chair. "Now,   
how can I help you, Colonel? Is this about the trade agreement?"  
  
He smiled at last, and shook his head. "No, Ms. Alexander, I'm not here on   
official business." Averting his eyes, he swallowed hard. "Lyta," he spoke her   
name as he met her eyes again, "you probably don't remember but we met once,   
many years ago."  
  
She reached back in her mind, trying to find the memories he had stirred in her.   
He shifted in his chair, turning his right shoulder toward her, showing the psi   
embroidered on his sleeve. "Are you with the Metasensory Agency, Colonel?" she   
asked, fighting back her anger. Another smile, broader this time, spread across   
his face. Irritation and affection warred within her.   
  
"No," he said softly. "I'm regular EarthForce, assigned to the EAS Powell. I   
was formerly first officer on the Excalibur." He followed her glance to the Psi   
patch on his shoulder. "And yes, I'm a telepath, trained by PsiCorps. In fact,   
that's how you and I met."  
  
He reached out, gently, tentatively, with his mind, dropping his blocks,   
inviting her to do the same. She allowed him entry, although she didn't need   
the images he was sharing with her. She remembered him now. John, the young   
telepath at PsiCorps headquarters, the one who had faked the administration of   
the sleepers, who had allowed her to execute her escape and the destruction of   
the Corps' headquarters.   
  
She smiled now and spoke aloud. "You followed your dream, John. You said you   
had always wanted to be in EarthForce."   
  
"That's part of the reason I've come," he noted. "I wanted to thank you. Maybe   
it wasn't a direct cause and effect, but you are part of the reason telepaths   
now serve in EarthForce, part of the reason I was able to go after my dream."  
  
"A lot of people fought to open those doors, John," she answered. "I was   
just..." She paused to find an apt analogy. "I was just a focal point for their   
energies."  
  
Matheson leaned forward, arms on knees. "I know the sacrifices that were made,   
Lyta, believe me." He was quiet for a time, and though she listened to see if   
he were sending, she sensed she shouldn't eavesdrop on these thoughts.   
  
"I didn't leave the Corps after the explosion," he said finally. "I played by   
the rules, right to the end. I served with PsiCorps until the organization was   
dissolved. I stayed clear of Bester and the other renegades. I was 'a good   
telepath.' When the new rules came down, I was 'rewarded' by being allowed to   
enter EarthForce. I was one of the first, and believe me, they watch-dogged us   
in ways you wouldn't believe. And even when the watchdogs were bending the   
rules, I was watching every step."  
  
She waited, eyes, ears, and mind open to him, through a long silence. Finally   
she spoke. "I hear regret in your voice."  
  
"I never told anyone, never said a word about what I had done for you. After   
the explosion, it was too confused, too chaotic. No one seemed to be in charge   
at first, and when the chain of command finally was re-established, everyone   
seemed to have forgotten that I had been involved. They never asked me   
anything, and I never offered."  
  
She was confused by his confession. She wanted to reach out to him   
telepathically, to understand what he was feeling, and though he wasn't   
blocking, she did not feel free to enter his mind. She was not forbidden, but   
not invited either. It would be too...intimate.   
  
"So you feel guilty because you never confessed what happened?" she asked. "But   
why tell me? Why not just go to the Metasensory Agency and tell them?"  
  
His eyes jumped to hers and a smile teased at the corners of his mouth. "I'm   
not sure they don't already know," he said. Seeing Lyta's wide-eyed stare, he   
hastened to apologize. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm not making a lot of sense."   
Embarrassed, Lyta realize she was shaking her head from side to side.   
  
"I kept that secret all these years, but you know how hard it is for us to ever   
really have secrets. I've always wondered if someone picked it up in a scan.   
In the beginning, Metasensory demanded that telepaths in EarthForce be scanned   
twice a year, and some of those scans were brutal. I'd tried to bury that   
memory, but I always wondered if they would find it, and what would happen if   
they did. I've always been nervous, but I've never felt guilty.  
  
"I tried to at first. I felt as though I ought to feel guilty. I told myself I   
had a responsibility to confess, for my own conscience, for the good of the   
corps, for the memory of the people who died in that explosion.   
  
"But I didn't. I didn't confess, and I didn't feel guilty. I was sorry people   
had died, but when I thought about what would have happened if I had just   
followed orders, I realized people would have died that way too. And either   
way, they were my people, our people. Telepaths in the corps or telepaths   
outside the corps, but still telepaths, like me. I thought a lot about whether I   
should leave the Corps, if what I had done by helping you made me a rogue too. "  
  
"But you didn't leave."  
  
He shook his head. "No. Maybe I should have but..." His voice trailed away and   
he looked to her with pleading eyes.   
  
She touched his mind ever so gently, not intruding, just a reassurance, and   
found a grateful welcome. Still, he spoke aloud.   
  
"I'm someone who needs order and discipline. I want structure. I need that.   
It's not comfortable for me to work outside the system." She nodded her   
understanding.  
  
"So I stayed. I told myself I could be a voice for reason with the Corps, but   
things got so ugly. And then suddenly the Corps was gone and there were   
opportunities that had never been there before. There was a chance at the   
dream.   
  
"I grabbed at it. Maybe I should have been thinking about someone or something   
bigger than myself, but I just took my shot at EarthForce. There were only two   
of us in that first class. 'Pioneers,' they called us. 'Lab rats' was what is   
felt like. From EA regulars who weren't pleased to have us, to Metasensory   
officials who were assigned to be sure we weren't 'misusing' our powers, there   
was somebody in my face every minute of every day.   
  
"I still played by the rules. There were so many times I could have passed a   
test or carried out an order so much easier with a little bit of psi, but no."   
A sardonic laugh escaped him. "See, telepaths were welcome in EarthForce as   
long as they didn't think or act like telepaths. You still had to wear the Psi   
patch -- they tried to sell it as a proud symbol of your specialty, but it was   
still just a marker to alert normals to your presence. Psi was never anyone's   
specialty; in fact, you had to forget you were a telepath, deny who you were.   
  
"And ever six months some character from headquarters would show up to scan you.   
Officially, they were supposed to be checking to make sure you were observing   
the rules, but once they were inside your head, they went looking for ... for   
all sorts of crap. Strategic information about the missions you were on,   
political and personal information about your crewmates, old memories..."   
  
His voice faded away but Lyta could sense that the replay of that memory   
continued in his mind. She touched him again, to see if she was still welcome,   
and he made no move to block her. Carefully, she slipped inside his mind, and   
instantly recoiled from the searing pain. The memory of those scans ripped at   
his mind more violently than any actual scan Lyta could remember. She steeled   
herself and moved into the memories with him, hoping that the sharing might   
somehow ease the pain. She saw the faces of all the agents of MSA who had   
invaded his mind, shared his cynical amusement at their artifice of all using   
the name Jones. He named some of them, and others she recognized and supplied   
with names; only a few Joneses remained.   
  
She felt a shift in his mental posture, a relaxation with her presence in his   
mind. He switched the memory from the quick replay of faces and places and   
sensation to a slower, more detailed remembrance. With him, she felt the   
prying, the digging for knowledge he didn't want to share. Together, they   
looked at where those scans had gone, what they had sought, and what they had   
found.   
  
/ They never found it. / The thought, sparkling with wonder, might have   
belonged to either of them, or both of them. In all the scans, there was no   
indication that John's memory of their first meeting was ever touched. / What   
were they looking for? / Lyta asked, trying to make sense of memories he had   
shared with her.   
  
/ They were interested in the Excalibur, -- the ship itself -- in Gideon, and   
in the medical research, / he replied.   
  
/And in...Garibaldi? / She was startled by the patterns taking shape in her   
mind. /In Edgars Industries? /   
  
Matheson drew back slightly from their mental link, and spoke aloud. "Yeah, I   
always figured that was part of the interest in the ship. Mr. Garibaldi was   
involved with the original design and construction."  
  
Lyta's eyes narrowed. "And Edgars Industries owns one of the major   
pharmaceutical houses, the one most likely to get the rights to any subsidiary   
developments from the Excalibur's mission."  
  
Jerking back his head, he squinted at her. "Is that significant? I mean, lots   
of people were looking to profit on the mission, most notably IPX. Why would   
Metasensory care whether Edgars was making a buck?"  
  
She rose and started to pace. "There are just... there are so many pieces here   
that might fit together, might be pointing to..." She felt chilled suddenly, and   
drew her cardigan closer around her body. "John, would you like some tea?"  
  
He accepted the offer with thanks, rising and moving toward the kitchen area of   
the one-room dwelling. "You said things fit together, Lyta," he reminded her as   
she set the kettle to boil. "What did you mean by that?"  
  
She shook her head. "It's not altogether formed in my own head yet. Give me a   
few minutes?" He acknowledged the request telepathically, and she realized, as   
she carried a tray to the table, that it was the first time he had initiated   
mind communication without asking her permission. 


	3. Heads and Tales 3/3

"Your fire is dying," he said aloud. "May I?" She thanked him, and while she   
brewed a pot of tea, he rebuilt the fire to a hearty crackle. They sat, elbow to   
elbow, at the little table with the morning's harvest in the center. There was   
an awkward moment's silence after the tea was poured, until Lyta spoke.   
  
"So, do you still play by the rules, John?"  
  
"Of course..." he replied. /...not. /   
  
She sputtered a giggle into her tea, amused as much by the mixed modes of   
communication as by the response itself. He smiled too and then continued   
aloud.   
  
"In time, there were more telepaths in EarthForce, and because of the   
quarantine, fewer Metasensory people to make the rounds checking up on us. The   
checks became annual, then occasional. When the cure was finally found, there   
was so much excitement making sure that it got to everyone, that EarthGov lost   
interest in us. We stopped getting visits from Mr. Jones, and gradually we were   
able to relax.   
  
"Oh, I still observe the basic rules. I've never scanned anyone without   
permission, but I'm a lot faster to use what I hear in the background noise   
nowadays."  
  
"John, you said that thanking me was part of the purpose of this visit. I guess   
I still don't understand the rest. Why did you come? And why now?"  
  
"The last part is the easier part to answer. The Powell was out this way, and I   
had leave time coming. I figured if I didn't seize the opportunity now, I might   
never get another chance. You see, I'm retiring from EarthForce soon, Lyta."   
  
"Retiring? Or giving up?"   
  
He didn't answer right away. "I'm not entirely sure myself," he said finally.   
"When I was growing up, I wanted to be in EarthForce and I thought it was   
terribly unfair that I was barred from that because I was a telepath. I said   
that one had nothing to do with the other. When I finally got to EarthForce,   
and was compelled to behave as though I wasn't a telepath, I realized it's not   
so easy to separate the two."  
  
"It's never easy to deny who you are." Gentle words but woeful, they were   
spoken as much for herself as for him. He studied the soft swag of her hair as   
her head tipped down over her teacup and tried to will himself to see the eyes   
hiding behind it. He reached out this time, just as gently, mind to mind,   
asking entry, offering comfort. She showed him a hundred memories in a moment,   
memories of Vorlons and violence and victories, of Babylon 5 and Bester and   
Byron. He cradled her mind in his own, trying to give back a measure of the   
compassion she had given him.   
  
  
"That's the other reason I came, Lyta," he whispered when finally her mind went   
quiet. A slender hand, marked with the calluses of years of gardening, drew   
back the veil of hair from her eyes. She studied him, a stare piercing enough   
to make him squirm, and though she formed no words with voice or mind, she let   
him feel the curiosity that stirred in her.   
  
He shifted in his seat and made to sip from the now empty cup. She refilled his   
mug as he spoke. "I wanted to tell you about Byron. I knew him, years ago.   
Not well, but..." Mentally, he thanked her for the tea, and he paused to take a   
long, warm swallow. "We knew each other in training. He was a few years ahead   
of me, but he wasn't the kind who would just keep to his own cadre. We had   
several long talks, good talks, full of honest questions, and now and then some   
answers."  
  
The mix of honesty and humor made her smile. She thought about how short their   
time together had been and how little she had known about his life, and in the   
quiet of her mind, she heard John's understanding.   
  
"I wanted you to know what he was like then, Lyta, who he was. People know he   
was part of the Omega Squadron. Bester never missed a chance to talk about how   
Byron 'betrayed' him. But he wasn't just some jack-booted bloodhound who   
suddenly did a one-eighty and went rogue. It wasn't that simple."  
  
/It rarely is, / she thought, and he smiled in acknowledgement. "All I know of   
his past," she said aloud, "is the little bit that came out with Bester." Even   
the sound of his name made her angry, and she felt John's compassion.   
  
"I understand," he said. "He came aboard the Excalibur at one point, and he   
was, if possible, even more arrogant than I remember him from training. But   
it's more than that. The man's..." He searched for a word sufficiently vile.  
  
"Vicious," Lyta supplied. "He's vicious. He didn't care whether the telepaths   
had a colony on Babylon 5. He just wanted to destroy Byron. He wouldn't stop   
until he killed him." Matheson jumped back from the flames of rage in her mind,   
passion beyond emotion, fury cultivated into murderous steel. He shifted the   
subject to escape his discomfort.   
  
"I just wanted you to know that Byron didn't start out as a Bester clone.   
Things were different then, and Bester's reputation was better, but even then,   
Byron had his doubts. Do you remember the signs in the PsiCorps training   
facility?"  
  
"How could I forget? 'Trust the Corps.' 'The Corps is Mother; the Corps is   
Father.' They were everywhere you looked."  
  
"He and I talked about them, late one night. He said they were the single   
greatest source of his doubts about the Corps. If an idea was sound, he said,   
there was no need to sell it that hard. The ones that said 'Obey' worried him   
the most. We talked a long time about the dangers of mindless obedience.   
  
"I asked him once why he joined the Omega Squadron. He didn't answer me at   
first, and when he did, it wasn't at all the answer I expected. Most of the   
squadron was there out of personal loyalty to Bester, but he didn't even mention   
that. He said he had dreamed of being a fighter pilot. As a little boy, he had   
heard stories about the war, about the Battle of the Line, and he fantasized   
about piloting a Starfury. He was heartbroken when he learned that telepaths   
weren't welcome in EarthForce."  
  
/Just like you. / He smiled at her observation.   
  
"I remember he looked at me a long time, and then he said, very softly, 'this is   
the closest I'll ever get to my dream.' He joined Omega because it was his only   
chance to fly."  
  
"And then Bester demanded the obedience from him," she said, her jaw tight.  
  
Matheson spoke softly. "Bester told him that the price of the dream was to give   
up who he was."   
  
"He couldn't do that."  
  
"No." / Sometimes the dream is too dear. /  
  
"Is that why you're retiring, John? Is the dream too dear?"  
  
"Not so much dear as disappointing, I think." He rose, moved to the fireplace,   
and aimlessly prodded the fire with a poker. "When you dream about something,   
you imagine that it'll be soaring, exhilarating. But EarthForce, at least the   
way it's been for me... well, it didn't soar."  
  
He faced her now, backlit by the blaze. "The saddest part is that there were so   
many times when I know I would have been a better soldier if I had just been   
free to be who and what I am."  
  
She rose and he crossed to meet her, breaking out of the corona of the hearth.   
"And when you retire, John, what then? Where will you go?"  
  
"I haven't quite worked out those details yet." He shrugged, but worry's   
creases siphoned the smile from his eyes.   
  
"You know you're welcome here," she offered, and instantly knew his gratitude   
and his reluctance.   
  
/ A little bit too far outside the lines. / They shared a smile at the common   
thought, before Matheson checked his chrono.   
  
  
"I should go. I've taken up enough of your time."  
  
"Nonsense. I've enjoyed the visit. Why don't you stay for dinner? It's   
nothing special, but no one's died from my cooking."  
  
"I wish I could, but I do have to get back to the Powell. Thank you for seeing   
me, Lyta."  
  
"Thank you for coming, John. I appreciate the memories you shared, but most of   
all, I'm glad to have the chance to know you." She stepped closer, and took his   
hand in both of hers. "I've never properly thanked you, John, for what you did   
in that cell in Geneva. A simple thank you doesn't feel like enough. But I   
want to thank you most of all for taking the harder road."   
  
He rattled his head as though it might knock sense into the words. "The harder   
road?"  
  
Slowly, her head pulsed up and down. "We took the easy way, John. We fought to   
get here, yes, but we moved away from the normals and all their misconceptions   
and suspicions, and we created a homeworld where telepaths only have to deal   
with other telepaths. You stayed among the normals. You worked within their   
institutions. And you reminded them -- and us -- that 'telepath' and 'normal'   
are just two more artificial categories into which we try to force the infinite   
diversity of humanity. You and I, Byron, Bester -- all telepaths. Could you   
paint us with one brush?"  
  
A soft chuckle escaped him before he leaned in to kiss her cheek. As she opened   
the door for him, a chill blast of wind tugged it from her hand. "Your coat!   
You'll need that with our weather." She pushed the door closed again and took   
his coat down from the hanger. The aged black leather was soft under her   
fingers as she held it open for his arms, and as he cinched the trench around   
him and raised the ample hood, she realized that the coat reached his ankles.   
"Not exactly standard issue," she noted, "unless EarthForce has changed a lot."  
  
In the shadows of the hood, his eyes crinkle in a smile. "No, not standard at   
all. A gift from a friend." His words stopped and for a moment, Lyta felt   
blocks around his mind. Sadness flooded her when he let them fall.   
  
"Galen was a technomage," he explained. "He wasn't officially part of the   
Excalibur's crew, but he spent a great deal of time with us. It's funny,   
because when we were on the Excalibur, we really weren't friends. I was never   
really sure if he could be trusted. He was much closer to Gideon, and to   
Dureena. But... well, things don't always turn out the way you expect.   
  
"I was with him when he died, held him in the last moments. He said he wanted   
me to have the coat, to remember him. He said... he said that we were two sides   
of the same coin, he and I. Technomage and telepath. Just as we came to our   
abilities because of intervention by the Vorlons, they owe their power to the   
Shadows, and both of us labor under the burden of that knowledge. That's the   
price we pay for being extraordinary."  
  
"There's always a price."  
  
"Yes," he agreed. "Every dream comes with a price tag, and we have to decide   
how much we're willing to pay." He stepped to the door. "Be well, Lyta, and   
thank you."  
  
"Go in peace, John." She opened the door for him again, holding it securely   
this time. As he stepped out into the garden, she voiced an idle curiosity.   
"John, how did Galen die?"  
  
"The old crank said the Excalibur killed him," Matheson laughed. Sobering, he   
explained. "In the early stages of the search for a cure, we came upon a   
nanovirus which our medical team was able to adapt. The variant shielded the   
recipient from infection by the Drakh plague for 48 hours of exposure. It freed   
us to do some important research, research that ultimately led to the cure.   
  
"But apparently the virus mutated in Galen's system, and caused a slow growing   
infection. There was no cure."  
  
"I'm sorry." Her words were feeble, but Matheson acknowledged them with a nod,   
and took his leave. She stood a while in the doorway, watching him walk back   
toward the town and his future. Then she shut the door, and stood by the fire,   
warming herself and reviewing the conversations of the day.   
  
  
  
  
The comm system crackled to life the moment her hand touched the panel, and the   
connection she requested was quickly made. "Michael Garibaldi, please," she   
asked the young woman who answered. "Lyta Alexander calling."  
  
Only a moment passed before Michael appeared, greeting her warmly but with   
concern. "What's up, Lyta?" he asked once pleasantries had been exchanged.   
  
"Michael, it was a division of Edgars Industries that developed the cure for the   
plague, wasn't it?"  
  
"Developed? No. The folks on the Excalibur and Stephen's team on Earth get all   
the credit for development. Our people just picked it up for mass production,"   
he explained. "Why?"  
  
"Did you do any testing on it? Counterindications? Side effects? Anything   
like that?"  
  
"Sure. Stephen's people ran the tests, and our people did them all again. It   
came through clean. Amazingly so, in fact. They couldn't turn up a side   
effect."  
  
"Even in long range studies?" she asked.  
  
"As long range as we could manage," he replied. "Time was not a luxury afforded   
to us. But we've had no reports of complications, Lyta. What are you getting   
at? Have you heard something?"  
  
Her eyes drifted off the viewer, to the window, and out across the swamp to   
where a single tree blazed fiery orange. "Were any of your test subjects   
telepaths, Michael?" 


End file.
